Chapter 7
Kip
By hour four, the rumble of the road is starting to sound like white noise.
The kind that seeps into your skull until even the map blurs.
Hutch is driving, one hand loose on the steering wheel, sunglasses on, humming off-key to some French pop station that keeps cutting out.
He looks irritatingly relaxed for a man who refused to use the GPS.
I glance at the map—paper, because he doesn’t “trust the bloody sat-nav.” We’re somewhere in eastern France between Metz and Reims.
“Trust me,” Hutch replies patiently. “I’ve done this stretch before. This cuts fifteen minutes and dodges the usual traffic snags.”
“Or,” I counter, “it strands us in a beet field.”
He gestures at the road ahead. “Observe. No beets. Just charm.”
“I don’t trust charm.”
“You don’t trust anything.”
“That’s categorically untrue. I trust anything that required permits and a committee.”
He chuckles, unbothered, the streaks of silver at his temples giving him that maddening, grown-man charm I have no business noticing. “Relax, Kip. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
“I’m not the one treating continental Europe like a choose-your-own-adventure.”
He laughs again, husky and full, and I hate how much I enjoy the sound of it. The countryside rolls past—quaint cafés, a cluster of houses with faded blue shutters. It’s almost enough to make me forget he’s taken us off route again. Almost.
Then there’s a loud thunk from the back right wheel. It’s followed a second later by a low, dragging sound.
Hutch’s grin fades.
“Bollocks.” He eases the van onto the narrow shoulder.
I look over at him, heart sinking. “Please tell me that wasn’t—”
“Flat.” He’s already opening his door. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“As if I’m planning to,” I say, watching him climb out into the sun, broad shoulders silhouetted against the road.
I stay put, watching through the passenger side mirror as he crouches beside the rear tire, muttering something that’s definitely not fit for broadcast.
After a minute or so of his one-man swearing symphony, I open my door and step outside. “Need help?”
He gives me a look that’s equal parts exasperation and amusement. “Unless you’ve got a hydraulic jack in that bag of yours, probably not.”
“Guess I’ll just stand here and look pretty, then.”
I scan the street. We’ve rolled into a tiny town—stone houses, ivy-covered walls, a church steeple in the distance. And a bakery, tucked between two shops, its windows fogged with heat and the smell of sugar drifting across the street.
While Hutch wrestles with the tire, I duck inside.
The bakery’s cozy and fragrant, a little oasis of butter and yeast in the sleepy town.
The counter groans under rows of croissants, pain au chocolat, and thick, flaky pastries that look like tiny works of art.
My stomach grumbles just looking at them.
And Hutch skipped breakfast. He’s got to be starving by now.
I hover by the counter, trying not to gawk at every shiny treat like a total tourist. “Bonjour,” I mutter, earning a polite nod from the woman behind the glass.
I start picking things I think he’d enjoy.
A pain au chocolat because the man clearly needs sugar before functioning.
A croissant, buttery and plain, in case his stomach isn’t quite ready for something sweet.
Maybe a mushroom tart for—I don’t know, protein?
Moral support? I’m not even sure if he eats mushrooms, but it feels right.
I settle on a paper bag filled with the works. I pay and step back outside, the bag warm in my hands, my stomach doing that fluttering thing again.
Hutch is still crouched beside the car, forehead creased in concentration, the flat already off and the spare balanced against his knee while he tightens the bolts.
“Food?” I hold up the bag like a peace offering.
He glances up, something unreadable flashing across his face before it settles into something softer. “For me?”
“Emergency tire-changing fuel.” I extend the bag out to him. “Thought you might be hungry since you passed on breakfast.”
He shakes his head, but he brushes his hands off on his jeans and takes the bag. “You really didn’t have to.”
“You got me dinner last night, remember? Now we’re even. Besides, you’ve earned it. Manhandling a tire is hard labor.”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out something wrapped in wax paper, peeling it back to reveal a croissant the size of his fist. A snort of laughter escapes him as he takes a bite, flakes scattering down his wrist. “Not bad.”
“I’d hope not,” I say. “The lady inside was terrifyingly confident about her pastry skills.”
He grins around another bite. “Confidence well placed, then.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A check of the screen shows it’s a text from Grady.
How’s the trip going? U in France yet?
I text back a breezy “all good here,” conveniently skipping the flat tire and Hutch’s creative sense of direction. No use worrying him when we’re already almost back on the road. I hit send and pocket my phone, figuring that’s the end of our conversation, but it buzzes again.
I heard Hutch was delayed 2. Were u guys on the same flight?
Crap.
I stare at the screen, brain spinning. Did Hutch tell Ben he was flying with me?
Or that we’re road-tripping across Europe like some mismatched travel vlog duo?
Knowing him, he probably said nothing and called it efficiency.
And I don’t want to spill anything that might get Hutch in hot water with his boss.
I glance down at Hutch, who’s devoured the croissant and is tightening the last bolt with the practiced ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Which he probably has, albeit with a pneumatic wheel gun and not whatever glorified bottle opener came with this van.
“Uh, Hutch,” I say when he’s done and straightens up, wiping his hands on a rag like he’s finishing a pit stop. “Did you happen to mention to Ben you were flying with me?”
He pauses, looking up from the rag. “Don’t think so. Why?”
“Because Grady knows we were both delayed, and I think he’s putting two and two together.”
He cocks his head. “And?”
“And I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell him we’re driving together,” I admit. “Did you already mention it? Or is this one of those things I’m supposed to pretend isn’t happening?”
He continues to wipe his hands on the rag, utterly unbothered. “Didn’t seem important.”
“Right,” I say slowly, staring at him. “Because a surprise joint arrival at Silverstone won’t raise any eyebrows.”
I can already hear the jokes from the paddock. The odd couple road-tripping across Europe. Even if they know we were traveling together, they’ll make it a thing. And if anyone thinks we kept it quiet on purpose? We’ll never hear the end of it.
He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “You can tell him if you want. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.”
I look back at my phone. “Of course it doesn’t.”
He tosses the rag onto the floor mat, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re overthinking it, Carmichael.”
“Someone has to,” I mutter, typing a bland reply to Grady letting him know that yeah, Hutch and I are traveling together and hoping it sounds casual enough to pass.
He’s still watching me, that little smirk growing. “You really don’t like loose ends, do you?”
“I like knowing the plan,” I shoot back.
“Right. Schedules, spreadsheets, and synchronized watches.” He nods solemnly, then hefts the ruined tire upright and rolls it toward the back of the van. “Must be exhausting.”
“Not as exhausting as improvising every five minutes,” I say, but there’s no real bite behind it.
He hums, half-smiling. “Then it’s a good thing we balance each other out.”
I roll my eyes, pretending his words don’t land somewhere inconvenient in my chest. While he gathers the tools and closes up the back of the van, I notice the paper bag sitting on the hood, grease-spotted and crumpled shut.
“You gonna finish those?” I ask, nodding toward it.
He gives me a look. “Thought they were for me.”
“They were. But generosity only goes so far.”
“Better grab one now before I change my mind.”
With a bemused huff, he grabs the bag and tosses it onto the dash as he climbs into the driver’s seat without giving me time to protest. Just as well since I have a stack of driver notes and emails to sort through.
By the time I slide in beside him, he’s already started the engine.
The van chugs back to life, shaking slightly as we roll out of the village and back toward the main road.
Crumbs scatter from the open bag, the cab filling with the mouthwatering scent of pastry.
I take a deep breath, letting it out on a long sigh.
Beats motor oil and air freshener any day.
Hutch glances over, sunglasses back in place, mouth curved just enough to count as a grin. “Next stop, Silverstone.”
I pick a pastry from the bag, something flaky and still warm, and take a bite, powdered sugar dusting my fingers. “Just try to stick to the highway this time.”
He chuckles, shifting gears. “No promises.”